


Grilled

by longwhitecoats



Series: Staccato [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Caning, Flogging, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:42:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longwhitecoats/pseuds/longwhitecoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's less desperate than last night, not so much an explosion of desire as a slow-burning ache, and Will feels his dick pressing against the wood of the cross. He jerks his hands against the ribbon for a moment as instinct takes over, wanting to wrap his arms around Hannibal, but he is prevented. He gasps. Hannibal pulls back. "You won't escape, now, will you?"</p><p> </p><p>Please see end notes for a spoilery trigger warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grilled

In the men's room mirror, the bruise is barely visible, a soft lavender cloud floating below Will's collarbone. He lifts his fingers and touches it. He presses down. A jolt of pain shoots through him, and he feels his body respond, an overwhelming surge of lust that makes him drop his hands to the sink and gasp. He's been replaying the memory over and over in his mind all morning, licking it like a sore tooth.   
  
_"You can't just throw me out with nothing to show for it," Will said, his voice low, breath shallow. He felt Hannibal's lips move over his neck. "That's just rude."_  
  
_"You are not of sober mind," Hannibal murmured into his ear. "I could not--take advantage."_  
  
_"You could, actually," Will said. "In fact, I'd say I'm very much--ahh, god!--in favor."_  
  
Will feels the tension building. No one else is in the men's room. Will ducks into a stall, unzips his jeans, and takes himself in hand. He's already wet, slick, his whole body pulled taut toward this one point as he strains toward the memory, pumps himself. Even when Hannibal tried to make him leave---  
  
_Hannibal stood up and looked him in the eye. "Will. This is as far as we can go this evening." He looked pointedly at their clothes. They were still wearing their shoes, for god's sake. Will growled in frustration._  
  
_"Fine. Fine," he agreed, though it wasn't fine at all. Will opened the top two buttons of his shirt. "Give me something to remember you by," he said, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Hannibal smiled._  
  
_And that was the first time Will saw Hannibal's teeth._  
  
Will gushes out over his hand, spilling into the toilet in a hot, shameful rush. He makes a sound inadvertently, he can't help it, just prays that anyone who hears him ignores it or mistakes the noise. He collapses over the toilet tank, his hand sticky, his fly wide open, gasping for air.  
  
God, how he'd wanted to stay. How he'd wanted Hannibal to strip his clothes off, right there, to pull down every instrument of pain from the wall and tear Will apart with them. As he thinks of it now, he's still frustrated, tense, even though his body is fading into a lassitude he can ill afford. He looks down at himself--jerking off alone in the bathroom, jesus. He's fucking desperate for it.   
  
He zips up, washes his hands and face, tries to concentrate on the feeling of the cold water. He still feels hot. Will always seems to run hot, these days. His face is flushed and his lips are a tell-tale, wanton scarlet. He tries to think about the work he has to get through today. He can't. He thinks of kissing Hannibal goodbye at the door, and Hannibal's strange request.  
  
_"I'll come back tomorrow night," Will said._  
  
_"Friday."_  
  
_"Tomorrow," Will repeated, unwilling to bend on this. He stood very close to Hannibal as he said, "I only have so much patience, doctor."_  
  
_"I see." Hannibal chuckled. "And it's not a good idea to anger someone who thinks about killing people for a living."_  
  
_Will kissed Hannibal again, suddenly, right there on the front doorstep. Hannibal didn't seem to mind; he folded his hands around Will's face and took it, his mouth opening softly under the pressure, tongue flicking over Will's. Will groaned. Hannibal pulled back._  
  
_"Bring me something," he said._  
  
_"What?" Will said. "For dinner?"_  
  
_"Bring me something beautiful," Hannibal said. "I'm sure you'll be creative."_  
  
Consequently, Will has spent the entire day racking his brain for something to bring. Every time he tries to think about it, though, his skin feels too tight for him, his gut clenches, and his mind races away to the other events of that night--and to tonight. Will stares into the mirror. What the hell could he bring Hannibal that he doesn't have already, or know much more about than Will does? What does Will know that Hannibal doesn't?  
  
He laughs darkly to himself.  _Maybe I could bring him an artfully arranged body._  He shakes his head. God, he's losing it.   
  
But he has to bring something.  
  
He checks his watch.  
  
** ** **  
  
When Will shows up at Hannibal's house that night, he hesitates on the doorstep for a good two minutes before knocking. It's not that he's afraid, exactly. But Hannibal was right: he needed time to think about it, to get used to the idea of what he was about to do. He was crossing a rubicon. He'd crossed part of it already, he supposed; one of its tributaries, maybe. He'd felt Hannibal's mouth on his, smelled his arousal, learned some of his secret desires. Will stands on the stoop, trying to remember the last time he'd been that intimate with someone. A while ago. And the last time someone made him feel this way?  
  
Maybe never.  
  
Will sighs and turns toward the door. Just last night he stood here, around the same hour, and was a totally different person. A person who hadn't yet kissed Hannibal Lecter. Will's spent an entire day replaying and even masturbating over what basically amounted to a makeout session. He can't decide if it's pathetic or--he cautiously allows himself to think it--or if it's good. If it's wonderful, even. Or perhaps it's merely devious, Will thinks. Hannibal had to have known what he was doing when he got Will worked up into a froth and then denied him satisfaction. He knew what that would do to Will's desire, just as surely as he knows what flame does to alcohol.  
  
Hannibal gets under Will's skin. He knows how to play Will like an instrument. It's frightening, and it makes Will's dick stir in his pants.  
  
He rings the doorbell.  
  
Hannibal's expression flickers minutely when he sees the box in Will's hands: rectangular, wrapped in maroon sateen paper and tied with a line of fishing wire. Instead of a bow, Will finished the gift with one of his handmade lures, the hook still attached. He can send messages as well as Hannibal can. From the look on Hannibal's face, it seems the message has been received.   
  
"How beautiful," Hannibal says, accepting it. "The fishing lure alone makes a perfect gift. You are very talented. Thank you, Will." He opens the door, welcoming Will in.  
  
"Glad you like it. There's twenty more in the box," Will says. Jack Crawford was right, he thinks, his stomach turning over: fear does make him rude. "Should I--"  
  
"Before we go in," Hannibal says, closing the door, "I would like to set a few ground rules for tonight."  
  
Will swallows. "Okay."  
  
"Firstly," Hannibal says, "once you step into the dining room, we are no longer merely good friends." He raises an eyebrow. "We are no longer even doctor and patient." Will can't help a grin at that. Hannibal smiles, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes: he seems more formal somehow, more composed, and yet he isn't reserved. He's clearly loose in the limbs, thoroughly in his element. It's power, Will realizes; he's a natural top. The thought makes him weak in the knees.   
  
"What will we be, then?" Will says.  
  
"I will be the one who gives orders," Hannibal says, as if that encompassed everything Will needed to know. "And you will be the one who takes them." Will thinks he hears a little aspiration on the word  _takes_ , a biting down, a moment of slippage in the mask of civility. He's more sure that he brought the right gift, now.   
  
"Okay," Will says.  
  
Hannibal nods. "Secondly: you must have a safeword. You must use this safeword if we go too far. I'm trusting you, Will." His face is suddenly grave. Will looks down at his feet. He wants to say,  _I thought I was the one trusting you_. But he can't be flippant. He knows what Hannibal means. They're taking a big risk doing this at all: Will isn't exactly the most  _stable_  person. Not that he's bitter about that. He's just... aware. Will has to take responsibility for tapping out. Hannibal won't necessarily know what's going on inside Will's head. Though he knows better than anyone else does, doesn't he?  
  
"I know," he says. "I'll-- you can trust me to use the safeword if I have to."  
  
"Very good," Hannibal says. "Thirdly: what is your safeword? Something that makes you feel safe."  
  
Will doesn't hesitate. "Abigail."  
  
Hannibal's eyebrows both shoot up at that, but he doesn't say anything. He just nods again, and then he holds out his hand for Will to take, exactly the way Will holds out his palm for his dogs. "Come."  
  
The dining room is dim, lit only by the flames of enormous golden pillar candles. Unusually, the place settings are not opposite one another, but rubbing elbows around the corner of the table. Serving trays are set beside the head of the table--Hannibal's place, Will presumes. There's a wine decanter filled with dark liquid, and the stemware gleams in the light. Will sits.   
  
"Only a light meal tonight," Hannibal says, lifting the domes from the serving trays and spooning beautiful food onto Will's plate. Hannibal's hands are deft and sure; Will couldn't possibly transform food into art the way he does, positioning each portion of the meal just so, each garnish. He describes it as he goes. "Swordfish grilled with red onion, mango, and sweet pepper--" this comes drizzled with something flame-coloured, and he spoons something on top-- "with passionfruit glaze and sea urchin roe." He opens another tray. "Dandelion and arugula salad with halved cherries and wildflowers." There it is again, Will thinks. Hannibal can't resist. It's note-perfect California haute cuisine, the very picture of relaxed American civility, brightly colored and non-threatening, and in the midst of it, the red flesh of a cherry, like a drop of blood on a white collared shirt. And wildflowers... Will runs his fingers over their petals, wondering if they came from Hannibal's backyard, or from deeper in the woods. Hannibal, pouring the wine, catches his look. "They're edible," he says. "A curious flavor, in fact. Bitter, yes. But tender."  
  
"Like me," Will can't help himself saying. He coughs. "Thank you. This looks amazing."  
  
"Bon appetit," Hannibal says. He lifts his knife and fork to the swordfish, and Will goes straight for the salad. Hannibal's right: the flowers on their own would be unbearably bitter, but combined with the sweetness of the cherries, they're pleasant. But there's no mistaking what they are.  
  
They eat mostly in silence. Will doesn't know what to say, and Hannibal seems to content to enjoy his food; after a while, once it becomes clear that Hannibal isn't waiting for him to jump--and god, how sad is it to realize you're basically always waiting to disappoint someone?-- Will relaxes into the meal. The food really is good. Hannibal serves the dessert course, foie gras with a delicate vervain sorbet in a fragile cup of molded dark chocolate, and Will, made freer with a little wine, can't help making appreciative noises. Hannibal looks up.  
  
"Sorry," Will says. "I don't mean to--this is just amazingly good. I don't get to eat foie gras very often. This--did you make this?"  
  
"I did," Hannibal says, looking pleased. He folds his hands and rests his chin on them, watching Will eat. "I wondered if you had a sweet tooth."  
  
"A meat tooth is more like it," Will says, feeling the richness of the flesh settle into his stomach, the cold crispness of the sorbet. "You wouldn't know it to look at me now, but I used to put away multiple steaks at a time. I'm an expensive date." Hannibal grins at that, almost laughs; that means approval, Will knows, and shared experience, maybe. It's a small gesture of intimacy, but it warms Will more than the wine. He gestures at the sorbet. "What did you say this was?"  
  
"Vervain," Hannibal says, tucking into his own dish. "Also called the verbena plant. The Romans used it as an aid to love. The Greeks believed it promoted pleasant dreams." He looks up, meeting Will's eyes. Will feels suddenly exposed, vulnerable. Pleasant dreams.  _Love._  Neither of those are things Will has thought about in a long time. Hannibal holds his gaze for a moment, clearly studying his reaction as he adds, "More recently, it was considered a cure for bites from a snake or a rabid dog."  
  
"Snake bites," Will murmurs, involuntarily reaching for the bruise hidden under his shirt. "Are you.. curing me?"  
  
Hannibal turns to his plate and scrapes up the last of his dessert, spooning it into his mouth with a languid air. "Not with sorbet," he says. He nods at Will's empty plate. "May I?"  
  
"Oh--yes. Thank you," Will says, his heartbeat rapid and his thoughts unmoored and drifting. Hannibal lifts Will's plate and his own, whisking everything away into the kitchen. He can't tell what Hannibal is trying to say, can't read the elegant design of sweet and fat and spice. Or does he just not want to know? The room feels suddenly dark, its gloom barely alleviated by the waning light of the candles. Will's nervousness is rushing back. Has he thought this through, Will wonders? What does this mean to Hannibal? What could this do to them, to their--whatever this is? Maybe he should leave before--  
  
"Shall I open it now?" Hannibal is standing in the doorway, Will's gift in his hands.  
  
Will realizes he's risen from his chair. "Sure," he says. "Um, in the kitchen?"  
  
They stand across the marble island from one another, staring at the gift. Will's earlier certainty has melted away, and he can't help shifting his weight, leaning back, his arms crossed protectively in front of himself and one hand fretting at the arch of his nose.   
  
Hannibal snips the fishing line with a pair of kitchen scissors, carefully removing the lure and laying it on the counter, a short filament dangling from it. Does Hannibal even fish?  
  
"This is either going to be a relief or entirely ignominious," Will says, mostly to himself. Hannibal is peeling back the paper and does not look up.   
  
"I could stop," he says. "We could pretend the lure was the present."  
  
They could, Will thinks. It's very tempting. He realizes now how naked he feels, how much this is going to tell Hannibal about him. About what Will might want from Hannibal. He can't keep his eyes still. He wants Hannibal to look up so he can watch his face, but he can't bear to look him in the eyes. He tries watching Hannibal's fingers as they slowly pull away the paper and lift the lid off the square black box.  
  
Hannibal's face changes when he sees what is inside, but he doesn't look up.  
  
Will doesn't breathe.  
  
"When we discussed it yesterday," Hannibal says at last, his eyes gleaming as he turns his face upward, "you said nothing about knives."   
  
Will drops his face into his hands, feeling the blush come up over his cheeks. He remembers how dizzy he felt, how overwhelmed, as Hannibal led him around the dungeon, making Will say  _Yes. No. Maybe. I don't know what that is. Not yet. Oh god, yes please._  How he practically clung to Hannibal, couldn't get enough of the feeling of their bodies pressed together, how hard it was to focus, how hard and how thrilling it was to say the word  _Yes_  over and over,  _Yes, yes, please do it,_  until he was saying it against Hannibal's mouth.  
  
"I know," Will says, feeling hot. "I didn't--it didn't come up. Maybe if you'd had it in your menagerie."  
  
The knife was an inspiration as he drove around the kitschy center of town that afternoon, passing store after store that catered to yuppies whose lives and desires were alien to Will. He drove past antique shops, furniture warehouses, boutique bath and beauty stores, until he found himself in front of a cooking supply store. Will doesn't cook much these days, and he's no culinary expert, but he knows knives. He remembers when he first learned to gut a fish, then a rabbit, then a deer. His hands know the difference between a knife that'll take your weight and one that'll break under it. So he went into the store and spent a good half-hour handling high-end knives until he found one crafted from a single piece of metal with a haft hand-molded in the abstracted shape of an ulna, just the right size and weight to settle into his grip. A boning knife.   
  
Now, under Hannibal's kitchen lights, it has a pale gleam. Will didn't think, before, how very obviously sexual an object it was.  
  
"It's a boning knife," he says.  
  
"Yes," Hannibal says. "Is that what you bought it for?"  
  
Will could lie. It wouldn't even be a bad lie;  _You love to cook,_  he could say. Or something crude, an attempt to diffuse and diminish the situation:  _We do encounter odd meats, don't we?_  But that would just make it worse, somehow, to hold out the suggestion and then sweep it back under the rug, like lifting his skirt at a passing car or telling only half of a joke. He's not here to tease. But he can't make himself say it. He can't.  
  
"It would certainly be okay with me," he grits out, "if that's what you used it for."  
  
Hannibal is watching him. "Will," he says, "you must tell me the whole truth." He doesn't add,  _Remember our rules_ , but Will can feel them, just as he feels the power radiating out of this man, and he doesn't want to disappoint him.   
  
All the blood rushes to his face as he looks down at the countertop and says, very quietly, "Retrospectively speaking, no. I bought it because it was--" he chokes down a bitter laugh-- "erotic."  
  
Hannibal's voice, when it comes, is gently reproachful. "I am not in the habit of renegotiating mid-scene, Will. We did not discuss this."  
  
Will can't tell whether the beating of his heart is fear or shame. Surely this isn't breaking the rules? He doesn't want to push Hannibal. He knows, or thinks he knows, that holding the whip is just as hard as being under it, in a way. He didn't mean to create a problem. He feels guilty... but under the guilt, he feels something liquid and demanding. Hannibal is grilling him, pushing him, and somewhere in the back of his mind he dimly recognizes that this, too, is play, that the trembling he feels and the desire to please are intended byproducts of this situation, but he doesn't see a way out. He's in the labyrinth without a thread to follow. He looks over the rims of his glasses at Hannibal, who is watching Will with utter stillness. "I know. I know," he repeats. "We--you don't have to. I'm not even sure I meant to ask you to do anything with it. I just--I liked how it felt in my hand. And I thought you would like it." He thinks of his present for Abigail, ungiven: too much a revelation of his own feelings. Too much about him, not enough about her. "Did I misread you?"  
  
The air is thick, then; Hannibal is deciding something. Will can see the gears turning. Then Hannibal nods, acquiescing. "No," he concedes. "You did not misread me. Thank you, Will. I will give this some thought." And he disappears into the pantry with the box, apparently considering the matter closed. Will's palms are sweating.  
  
Hannibal reappears without his jacket, carrying a small velvet bag. He regards Will from the other side of the room. He's so beautiful, Will thinks. No wonder the knife occurred to him. The two of them are so alike, Hannibal and the knife: elegant, dangerous, apparently simple but in fact so unusually complex as to be nearly impossible to replicate in all particulars. A sufficiently skilled artisan could create a simulacrum of the knife, Will supposes. There is no double for Hannibal. He is a nonpareil.  
  
"You seem troubled, Will," Hannibal says.   
  
Will closes his eyes, lets out a sigh. He looks again at Hannibal, his impeccable dress. He's removed his shoes; Will didn't hear him come in. "Not troubled," he says. "Just-- a little overawed, I guess."  
  
"Then let me remove your troubles," Hannibal says. He gestures toward the door behind Will: the basement, he remembers. "Please."  
  
Will leaves his own shoes at the top of the stairs and descends. Everything is just as he remembered it--the smell of wood soap, the dim red lighting, the racks of floggers and the rows of furniture. His heartbeat slows as he enters the room. This is somehow safer, more familiar. The range of activities that occur in a place like this is limited, and it doesn't include being given an inquisition.  
  
Well. Maybe it does.  
  
Hannibal walks up behind him almost silently, slipping his hands over Will's shoulders and down to his chest, his arms crossed. Will feels that sensation of quieting again, as if Hannibal's touch were a bulwark against his nightmares. The taste of the sorbet comes back to him, cool and vegetal, with the tiniest bit of sting. He leans back into Hannibal's embrace, his head lolling back to expose his neck, like a dog offering submission.   
  
Hannibal holds him like that for a minute. Will can feel him considering, planning, and it's a relief not to try to work out what it is. He just waits. That's all he has to do. He almost drifts off to sleep.   
  
"Good," Hannibal says, as if Will had spoken. "This will do. If you would be so kind, Will, please remove your clothes." He unfolds his arms and walks over to the rack on the wall, lifting and examining some of the floggers there.  
  
Will feels foggy. "All of my clothes?"  
  
"You may leave your undershorts on if you wish," Hannibal says airily, a bit detached, as if it were entirely up to him how naked Will is, and that thought sends a bolt of lust through Will. He feels as though Hannibal is still wrapped around him. He nods and begins to undress. Some old instinct--the doctor's office, maybe--makes him fold his clothes as he removes them. He sets the pile on a nearby chair and stands, shivering with excitement, in his underwear.  
  
Hannibal doesn't even look at him. "Go to the cross, please," he says, still looking at the wall.   
  
Will does. Lacking further instructions, he faces the wood, running his hands up and down it. He waits. Only a moment later, he is rewarded with the feel of Hannibal's hands on him again--this time on his bare skin, hot with desire and nervousness, and he shudders as Hannibal's palms smooth out the planes of his back and snake around his waist. He reaches his own hands down and finds the velvet bag Hannibal brought with him. "What's this?"  
  
"Open it," Hannibal says, and he does, pulling out two lengths of black satin ribbon finished with silver points. He lifts them. Wordless, he turns to face Hannibal, but he's already sliding his hands from Will's waist, walking around the back of the cross to look into Will's eyes. "Lift your hand," he says, and Will does. He sees now that the cross has metal eyelets screwed into the beams just at wrist height near the top of the cross. He lifts his left hand, and Hannibal slithers a ribbon out from his grasp, loops it around his wrist, and threads it through the eyelet twice before tying it in a bow. Hannibal nods, and Will dutifully lifts his right hand to be attached. When he is done, Hannibal steps closer, his body separated from Will's by very little space, and puts his hands on either side of his face. "Beautiful," he says, and Will groans, embarrassed to the core to be fussed over and decorated this way, and more embarrassed still to enjoy it, to be pleased at being made much of. Hannibal smiles. He leans forward and kisses Will on the mouth.   
  
It's less desperate than last night, not so much an explosion of desire as a slow-burning ache, and Will feels his dick pressing against the wood of the cross. He jerks his hands against the ribbon for a moment as instinct takes over, wanting to wrap his arms around Hannibal, but he is prevented. He gasps. Hannibal pulls back. "You won't escape, now, will you?"  
  
Will shakes his head. Hannibal kisses him again, the pressure of his mouth all but overwhelming. "That's my good Will," he says, and Will makes another noise, a soft animal noise, because he wants so desperately to be good, he does.   
  
Hannibal walks around behind him again, and Will hears him lift something from the rack. He's silent. Will wishes he'd speak, wishes he'd tell him what to do or what to expect-- "Talk to me," he says, "please, talk to me, I don't know what to do--"   
  
He feels a hand come down between his shoulder blades, just behind his heart. He stills. "There's nothing you can do, Will." Hannibal's voice is low in his ear; he feels the heat of Hannibal's body all along the length of his own, radiating out, and the gentle brush of fine wool. "You are trapped. Your only job is to feel." But that's what I do _every day_ , Will wants to say, except there's a whirring of air and the first blow lands right across his shoulders, and Will has the breath surprised out of him.   
  
"You may count, if you wish," Hannibal says, and Will registers the words only as the next blow falls, hitting him lower on the back this time, a thud and slap of leather that makes his flesh tingle and his whole body shake with the impact.   
  
Will sucks in air. "Two," he says gamely, shifting his feet and feeling the slide of satin over his wrists. Then, "Three," he counts, as Hannibal audibly lunges into the swing and lands the flogger squarely between his shoulders, and Will's momentarily uncertain erection tightens and fills. He didn't remember it being like this, a bone-deep impact that seems to settle in his groin and make him feel the tautness of every muscle. Back when he was playing pseudonymously in a club, being flogged made him feel small and weak; this makes him feel strong, as if some animal part of his mind is rising to the occasion, lending him the will to endure. He wants to endure, he realizes, as Hannibal strikes him again and again. He wants Hannibal to see how fierce and beautiful he is. How loyal.   
  
"Twenty," he gasps, sweating, and he hears the flogger drop softly onto a bench behind him. Hannibal's fingertips touch his back, running lightly over his bruised skin, and somehow  _that_  shocks a scream out of him, an honest to god scream. There's an odd noise behind him, a low susurrus. After a moment, he realizes it's the sound of Hannibal laughing.   
  
"What's funny," he says, muscles twitching.   
  
Hannibal doesn't answer. He steps away again, and Will wants to turn, wants to look, but the ribbons prevent him. It's a clever bondage, Will thinks; if Hannibal had cuffed him, or tied him with rope, Will would be tempted to pull, see if he could break it--or if it would break him. But the ribbons are flimsy. Will could get free whenever he wishes. And that makes him attend to them, makes him stay. It's up to him to follow orders. That he is choosing, at every moment, to remain Hannibal's decorated plaything, and that Hannibal  _knows_  it, shames him deeply. It's like being scalded with his own desire. His cock is nearly painful now, his balls drawn up tight beneath him.   
  
He hears a swishing noise. Then: "This will hurt," Hannibal says, and there's a  _crack!_  and a line of fire lances along the back of Will's thigh. Will yelps, jumping from one foot to the other. "Stay still," Hannibal says, "or I'll add strokes."   
  
Will does his best, but he winces as Hannibal lifts the cane again. It comes down hard on the other thigh, positioned exactly at the height of the first stroke, and Will can't even count, he just whimpers. It burns like fire, and then a second later, like ice. It's excruciating. He feels frightened, and yet at the same time he feels a surge of that strength, that loyalty, a whisper of  _You can do this for him, you can take this for him. Make him proud_. And he tries, he grits his teeth and tries, as Hannibal gives him another five strokes on the back of each thigh, and Will endures, and endures, and then screams.   
  
And then Hannibal is pressed against Will, and it doesn't hurt the way he thought it would, just makes him moan and flush with want. Hannibal's hands are on his neck, his shoulders, but he can feel that Hannibal, too, is stiffly erect, his cock nudging at the thin fabric over Will's ass. "Oh god," he says. "Please, god, Hannibal."  
  
"Yes?" Hannibal says, his hands settling on Will's neck. He stretches his fingers forward, and Will ducks his head down to catch them, sucking fingertips into his mouth. Hannibal makes a low humming noise. "Please what, Will?"  
  
"Please," Wills says wetly, his lips still sliding over Hannibal's fingers, "please touch me."  
  
"Touch you?" Hannibal says. "Am I not touching you now?"  
  
Will growls and then sags, feeling his body betray him as he presses his ass almost involuntarily against Hannibal's hard cock. Hannibal is going to make him say it, make him be specific. "I want you," he says, thinking about what it is that he wants, other than some kind of satisfaction, "I want to feel you inside me," he says, almost not knowing what the words would be before they left his lips. Hannibal dips two fingers into his mouth then, and Will takes them, moaning around their length, flicking up and down them with his tongue, before he realizes that Hannibal is still playing with him, still pushing him to say more, more, more.  
  
He tips his head back and turns his face, the wood of the cross brushing his cheek. He looks at Hannibal. What he sees takes the words right out of his head. Hannibal's eyes are nearly black, the red edges of his irises prominent around the wide pupils, and the expression on his face is something out of a grimoire. He looks glorious and deadly, filled with terrible purpose, like a fallen angel. Will swallows.   
  
"Please," he says, looking Hannibal in the eyes, feeling frightened. "I want you to fuck me." He nearly chokes on the word  _fuck_ , its nakedness and obviousness, but Hannibal doesn't flinch.   
  
"No," he says.  
  
"I," Will begins, not really believing that Hannibal means it, not expecting to hear him say no. "Please," he says again, "I want you--"  
  
"Don't beg," Hannibal says softly, and a thrill of fear goes through Will. "I'm not going to fuck you tonight," he adds, and Will doesn't know whether it's the sound of the word  _fuck_  in Hannibal's voice or the implication that if not _tonight_ , then tomorrow or the day after, but his whole body jerks, and he's suddenly aware that he's very close to orgasm indeed.   
  
Hannibal leans forward and kisses Will, his jaw working up and down almost as if he were chewing. Will is moaning into his mouth. He can feel sweat running down his sides. Hannibal breaks the kiss long enough to say, "You really must negotiate these things in more detail, Will," before plunging his hand into Will's shorts and wrapping his fingers around Will's hard cock.   
  
"Oh god,  _god_ ," Will says, and Hannibal kisses him again, muffling his cries as he works Will's dick in his hand. He's rutting himself against Will's ass, his own cock sliding over the fabric and pushing against Will, pressing him even further into Hannibal's hand. The smell of sex is heavy in the room, and Will feels hot, so overwhelmingly hot, and thinks,  _I belong to this man_ , and then Hannibal breaks the kiss and goes rigid, and Will realizes he's feeling Hannibal's orgasm, and he cries, " _Hannibal_ ," and then he comes all over Hannibal's hand.  
  
Hannibal clutches him afterward, holding him so tightly he can barely breathe, and he feels his legs give, and then he's grateful for Hannibal's embrace after all.   
  
"Here," Hannibal says, slicing through the ribbons with some unseen blade; but those must have been expensive, Will wants to say, but all he can do is whisper Hannibal's name over and over as he's laid out on a blanket on the floor. Hannibal wraps him in it, and Will shudders, suddenly cold everywhere. He feels Hannibal stroking him through the cloth, and then distantly hears Hannibal tell him something, but he's not sure what. The next thing he knows, he's waking up, and he's propped against Hannibal's chest and the basement wall, still wrapped in the blanket, and Hannibal is holding a cup of hot tea.  
  
The tea smells amazing.  
  
"Tea," Will says. He looks up at Hannibal, afraid of how he'll feel, now that it's over; but when he looks into Hannibal's face, he doesn't feel small and weak and punished, like he used to. Hannibal is looking at him with that familiar glint in his eyes, the one Will always thinks makes him look hungry. It's astonishing, to have that look still turned on him. Still. That Hannibal could strip him so naked and still be ravenous for more of him... Will is relieved beyond words. He feels brave. He feels wanted.   
  
He feels safe.  
  
"Thank you," is all he can manage, and he takes the tea.  
  
Hannibal watches him with those dark eyes.   
  
"Thank  _you_ ," he says, and Will shudders, feeling the heat wash down his throat.

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for knives and (very limited) discussion of knife play.
> 
> Thank you all so much for continuing to read these! This is such a wonderful and encouraging fandom, and I'm so grateful for all your kind comments!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Grilled](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3323984) by [dodificus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodificus/pseuds/dodificus)




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